


The one with the death of the Dowager

by akachankami



Series: Shippers Anonymous [20]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:21:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11700126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akachankami/pseuds/akachankami
Summary: Prompt:The staff was called upstairs for an announcement. The Dowager Countess had succumbed to the pneumonia that had stricken her days before and the house would be plunged into mourning once again. Charles… Elsie's first thought was of him, her eyes darting around the room, searching for his hulking form. "Pardon me, your Lordship, Mr. Carson…" she began. "Carson took it rather hard," grimaced Lord Grantham, "said he wanted to walk from the Dower House, has he not arrived yet?"





	The one with the death of the Dowager

She waits. And waits. And Mrs Patmore feels the need to comfort her with a  _don't worry, he'll be here any minute now_  or other phrasings of similar meaning from time to time.

He arrives late for supper, his face stoic. His words sharp. Everyone is on edge, his glare shuts up all conversation and even the clatter of forks on plates seems to upset him.

For how much Elsie tries, he never makes eye contact and retires in his pantry soon after. He's been missing for 4 hours and barely spoke so she waits in her sitting room, at least for a goodnight. But it never comes. She finds his pantry dark when she goes for a glass of water from the kitchen before bed.

She sighs to herself, bids goodnight to Mrs Patmore and climbs the stairs to her room early.

But she cannot sleep. She can only imagine what is going on in his mind and his heart now that his favourite member (Lady Mary aside) of his beloved surrogate family is gone. She never understood his fascination with the  _old bat_  but it pains her to see him closing up to everyone. To her mostly if she's sincere enough.

She's still sitting at her dressing table, braiding her hair for the night when she hears a small knock. She cracks the door open thinking she might have imagined it but there's his unmistakable silhouette in the shadows of the hall and he's whispering something.

For a second longer she pauses, trying to make sense of the odds: Charles Carson standing in the women's wing, outisde her door in his nightwear?! She pulls at his sleeves and lets him in, checking the hall for possible witnesses.

"My apologies for disturbing," he says barely audible.

Closing the door behind her back she aknowledges her state of undress. Both of them are in fact considerably unsuitably attired for conversation. And he's whispering and this feels all the more forbidden in her eyes. A feeling she's oddly at ease with.

"Nevermind that," she cuts him "where have you been all afternoon?"

He seems surprised and diverts his gaze to the ground embarrassed as she ties her nightgown: "I thought I'd clear my head." The point of his ears reddening, she finds it endearing.

Chastising herself for the thoughts she offers him a chair but he refuses. "I wanted to wait for tomorrow but I couldn't… I couldn't sleep."

He's sharing his grief now, she can see it in his eyes and she knows he'll never say more than that and she'll understand none the less, so she steps closer and touches his arm, lets him know she's there for him without words, he takes her hand and they both sit on the bed, close, like all energy suddenly left them.

"I went to the village," he finally admits "I sat on a bench and watched people passing by."

"For four hours?"

"Almost," he answers, a hint of indignation in his voice that makes her smile at the most inappropriate time. But surprisingly he smiles back.

"For almost four hours I could only think about the past. I realized I thought only about the past for the last four decades and tonight, in my pantry, I considered the future, _my_ future, for the first time."

She squeezes his hand lightly and he seems to realize just now they are holding hands, sitting on her bed in their nightclothes and a brighter shade of red creeps up at his cheeks. He's eyeing the door now and she's unsure if he wants to run or is afraid someone else might enter but he makes no attempt to move, instead he squeezes her hand back. "Are you trying to tell me something is going to change, Mr Carson?"

He nods quietly, sighs then speaks again: she listens as he talks about finally retiring, possibly living in a cottage, having a small garden, fishing… Another life, something he never thought possible before. She listens and squeezes his hand as this is the only thing still keeping him at her side as he slips further away, word after word.

They sit alone in her room for the first time, undressed, on her bed, and it's nothing like she ever fantasized about in her dreams. It sounds, in fact, like a goodbye to her ears. Something resembling tears gathers in her belly and she's relieved she's not required to speak or she's sure her voice would catch in her throat and that pool of sorrow would overflow.

He stops talking then, considers his next words studying the pattern on her bedding, avoiding her eyes once again.

"There are some things I don't want to change," he affirms with resolution and she sees what an effort it is for him to admit this truth "constants in my life I don't wish to give up."

He sits straighter now and untagles their fingers, fidgeting with his nightogown collar as it's suddenly itchy. And she's drifting offshore, drowning…

"You, Mrs Hughes, are one of them."

Hearing it out loud sobers them both up. Her wet smile reassures him, their fingers tangling again. Not an ending, perhaps a late beginning.


End file.
